| I was living on the hill
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| By the water tower and hiking trails
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| And when the big one hit I’d have a seat
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| To watch masters abandon their dogs and dogs run free
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| Oh baby, it’s time to leave
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| Take the van and the hearse down to New Orleans
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| Leave under the gaze of the billboard queens
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| Five-foot chicks with parted lips selling sweatshop jeans
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| These L.A. phonies and their bullshit bands
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| That sound like dollar signs and Amy Grant
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| So reads the pull quote from my last cover piec
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| Entitled «The Oldest Man in Folk Rock Spaks»
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| You can hear it all over the airwaves
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| The manufactured gasp of the final days
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| Someone should tell them ‘bout the time that they don’t have
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| To praise the glorious future and the hopeless past
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| A few things the songwriter needs
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| Arrows of love, a mask of tragedy
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| But if you want ecstasy or birth control
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| Just run the tap until the water’s cold
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| Anything else you can get online
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| A creation myth or a .45
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| You’re going to need one or the other to survive
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| Where only the armed or the funny make it out alive |